A Passing Eternity
by Avery72
Summary: An adpation to the Second World War. Quatre, a soldier of the 27th Infantry of Poland, must come to terms with the people he encounters on the battlefield. As he fights and falls in love, Quatre must decide where his heart is. 4x3 pairing.
1. Chapter 1

**Avery's Note:** This story is molded off of Remarque's _All Quiet on the Western Front_ and I believe that he deserves a substantial amount of credit for being an inspiration to me. I'd also like to thank you as well for taking the time to read this. This is my first "published" work of fan fiction… I hope you enjoy it!

**Summary:** "This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will simply try to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war." Erich Maria Remarque _All Quiet on the Western Front_

**The story thus so far:** N/A

**A Passing Eternity**

---

Chapter 1:

A light rain drizzled on the members of the 27th Infantry of Poland. A soldier tilted his head back and stared towards the melancholy gray of the sky above. The dust from destroyed pieces of brick and cement settled like a cloud about him. It stuck and dried on his muddy clothes. An expression of grief flashed across his face as he pondered the fate of his beloved militia. As much as he did not wish to admit it, Quatre knew that many of them had not survived.

The distinct rattling of a machine gun was firing off a few meters from his left. He could also hear the unnerving shriek of metal scraping against metal. Quatre cringed at the horrendous sounds and welcomed the safety that the abandoned building provided; even it was what was left of the vertex of two walls.

It had been a few months since the German invasion of his country, Poland. It was within a matter of days the entire European continent became engaged in a conflict. Only a few months had passed since the day that marked the start of the Second World War. Just like his father before him, Quatre had to give up his life as an international financial investor.

"Rashid," Quatre whispered to himself, "where have you gone?"

The blonde youth admired the strength of his eternal protector and friend. Rashid was given both the position as bodyguard and godfather on the day of Quatre's birth. Wherever Quatre went, Rashid went as well. And when Quatre's father was assassinated a few years after the end of the First World War, it was Rashid who stepped up and took his place in Quatre's life.

Just as if he heard the calling of his own name, Rashid appeared at Quatre's side, his back pressed against the wall. "Master Quatre," he said with his comforting, strong voice.

Quatre cracked a weak smile. Just having Rashid there was reassuring to Quatre. "Let us get out of this hell hole, please."

Rashid was about to make a response but the vibrations of the ground beneath them shook violently. They could hear the crunching of rubble beneath the weight of an approaching tank. It released a blast of shot near the two comrades. Little bits of dust and cement sprayed everywhere once more, covering the two.

"See that ditch over there? Count off five seconds from the next shot and then jump in there."

"What about you?"

"I'll be there before you know it." Rashid smiled.

The smashing of a building reverberated throughout the town. Rashid took this cue and opened fire. Under the cover of the deafening sounds and Rashid's fire, Quatre made a mad dash for the ditch. He made a last stretch jump and dropped down into the ditch. The land warmly greeted him, hiding him within her loving embrace from the tank.

The rattle of machine gun fire was now directed at his previous location, the cement corner Rashid was still occupying. Quatre poked his head out above the ditch and was about to scream to Rashid.

Machine gun fire was now aimed at him. The adept German gunner must have caught sight of Quatre's sudden movements. Quatre's instincts screamed at him to duck down, and he did so in a flash. A series of about ten to fifteen bullets ricocheted off of his helmet. It left a loud ringing noise in Quatre's ears and feeling of disorientation.

Another individual dropped into the ditch with Quatre. Assuming that it was Rashid, Quatre ignored the person and concentrated on figuring out how to stop the oncoming tank. He had two fragmentation grenades, but that wasn't going to be enough to defeat the Germans.

The man, more accurately the adolescent around his own age, was not Rashid.

Quatre turned around to face him. "Rashid what should we do now?"

All thought escaped Quatre as the muzzle of a Walther P38 met the bridge of his nose. The hand of the young man was still, there was no detectable fear in the other. It was obvious that if he pulled the trigger he shot to kill.

"Please don't kill me," Quatre whispered, trying his hardest not to sound like he was begging. He knew it was futile though, that the other would never understand him. He was a Polish refugee playing soldier in a war that he believed should have never happened to his country.

The one holding the gun was a German. He wore the uniform of Hitler and every inch of his grim disposition confirmed it. He was a _Nationalsozialismus, _aNazi, a being incapable of feeling any emotion. His auburn hair fell sharply into his face on one side and accented the stoic emerald of his eyes. He neither smiled nor frowned.

Anger swelled up within Quatre and replaced his fear of death. He thought about all the injustices dealt against him by these Nazis. It was these horrendous men who committed the heinous act of starting the war with their radical ideals. They killed his father and his family.

There was the whine of airplane engines. Quatre took advantage of the moment when the soldier made a quick glance at the sky. Just like lightning, leapt up from a crouch and moved in towards the other's body. He swung he knee straight into the abdomen and caused his opponent to cringe. Quatre turned the tables by wrenching the gun from his adversary's weak grip. He planted a foot on the German's chest and stood towering over as he pointed the P38 at him, the positions now reversed. Surprisingly though, the young soldier didn't fight back.

"Why?" Quatre asked harshly. "Why aren't you attacking me like you should be doing?"

The German soldier stared past him into the gloomy sky that was now dotted with aircraft, not saying a word. His expression still hadn't changed, neither smiling nor frowning.

Realization struck the boy like running head straight into a brick wall. Quatre was a handsome young blonde with crystal aquamarine blue eyes. It was forbidden amongst the Nazi's to kill an individual of the noble Aryan race. Quatre had the automatic advantage because of his physical appearance.

"I don't want to kill you."

Quatre dropped the gun on the ground next to the young man. "Go home. Go back to your family. Go and escape this war." He backed off and frowned.

Their eyes met and locked. They stared into one another, searching for keys to understand the other's soul. What seemed like the passing of eternity made the fighting around them melt into the background. It wasn't until a chunk of cement grazed Quatre's arm that they were brought back to reality.

The cloth of his sleeve was ripped and was stained with fresh blood. The wound, although shallow, radiated a stinging sensation across his arm. Quatre ignored the discomfort and reinserted himself in the battle raging around him.

Quatre could tell by the pitch of the sirens and the shouting in German that something was amiss. The machine gun fire had ceased and the shells of antiaircraft were exploding on the opposite side of the town. There was a vibration in the air from an airplane circling closely overhead.

It was an air raid. The ground vibrated more violently beneath them than when the tank was released its shots. Quatre dropped down on the ground yet again. The two strangers laid together in the ditch, waiting for the bombings from above to let up a little. The consciousness of another eternity passed between them.

Except this time, it was different. Instead of two enemies reaching into one another's soul, it was as two soldiers bound together by the instinct to survive.

Quatre could tell from the insignia that it was a British Airspeed Oxford. That meant troops from his allies had arrived. He turned to the German boy. They would kill him he they caught him, or even worse, torture him as a prisoner of war.

Without second thoughts, Quatre said one of the few words he knew in German to the soldier laying next to him. "_Laufen._"

Run.

The Nazi took off. Quatre watched him disappear amongst the rubble and wondered if he would see the soldier again. There was something different about him that intrigued Quatre. Secretly, Quatre was hoping that they would find each other again on the battlefield.

A few hours later, a cease fire was called for the Nazis in the area retreated to their base further in the Austrian country. What was left of the 27th Infantry of Poland picked itself up with the help of the British pilots. Starting at the beginning of the war with 210 men, there were only about a handful of them left after 17 encounters with Germans and Soviets.

Quatre scanned around him and noticed something out of place. He cocked his head to the side as he thought about the implications of something missing and dark crimson splayed all over.

Rashid.

The small fortress Rashid was occupying was completely reduced into tiny bits of rubble and dust. Quatre ran over and started digging through it, looking for Rashid. He caught sight of abandoned equipment and scraps of tank metal. An Allies bomb blew a tank to pieces, sending those pieces flying about the vicinity.

Quatre stood up and scanned the area once more. Lying beneath a slab of concrete was Rashid. Quatre pushed it off and cradled the dying body of his protector and close friend.

"Rashid, you promised me that we would make it out of this war together."

"I am sorry, Master Quatre," Rashid sputtered.

"Save your breath. Our friends are coming to help us."

"Mater Quatre," Rashid continued, "I am proud to have served your family all these years."

"No, no, no," cried the blonde. "Don't talk like you're dying."

"Take the goggles. It belonged to your father, and he wished for me to give it to you when the appropriate time came." He reached up and pulled the strap from around his head. He handed Quatre the pair of aviation goggles.

Quatre had seen his father wear them proudly no matter the occasion. He had seen photographs of his grandfathers wear them proudly. He had seen Rashid wear them proudly. It was the symbol of the men of the Winner family. Quatre understood well the symbolic meaning of Rashid passing them on to him.

Quatre took off his helmet and slipped the goggles on. He wouldn't upset his dying comrade in his last minutes before the black hand of death crept dragged him away to her domain.

"Master Quatre…"

Quatre struggled to keep his voice even. He had to maintain confidence that Rashid was going to survive.

"Rashid…"

"You're heart is the most magnificent aspect about you. Don't let the ugliness of the war taint and shatter it." Rashid grasped Quatre's hand a final time as he did so many times when Quatre was a little boy. "Live and show the world its beauty."

"Yes, I will. You'll be there with me as I give it away as well."

"I wish I could see the day you married. Your father's wedding was splendid. I have never met another man who loved his wife as your father did your mother."

Any change in the conversation was fine with Quatre. As long as it kept Rashid alive, Quatre was willing to discuss anything.

"But why do you wish? You will."

"No Master Quatre, I won't." He gripped a little more tightly onto Quatre's hand. "Death has already come to take me back with her."

Rashid's grip loosened and fell from his young master's hand.

No words were able to be spoken as he watched the remnants of his lifelong companion's life vanish. Everything he wanted to tell the older man surfaced and jammed in his throat. All he managed to produce was a strangled cry. Tears rolled down his face and left streaks where the dirt was washed off.

Member of his own unit found him sobbing in a heap and had to carry him to their encampment for Quatre was too weak to stand. They set him on a cot and draped a blanket over him. Many of them had felt connected to Rashid as well and understood Quatre's excruciating emotional pain.

---

**To be continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Avery's Note:** For all of you World War 2 enthusiasts, I sorry for this story not being very accurate in general. Anyway, I hope that this chapter meets your expectations. Thank you for reading!

**Summary: **"This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will simply try to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war." Erich Maria Remarque _All Quiet on the Western Front_

**The story thus so far: **Quatre, a soldier of the 27th Infantry of Poland, finds himself in the midst of urban warfare in an abandoned Austrian town. He loses his protector and companion, Rashid, in an accident during an Allies reinforcement air raid on the town.

**A Passing Eternity**

---

Chapter 2:

"Hey, buddy." A young American pilot pulled up a stool next to Quatre's cot. With a satisfied sigh, he dropped himself down on it and propped his feet on the cot. Quatre, although disapproving of the young man's invasion, didn't stir.

Since the death of Rashid two days ago, Quatre had given up. There was too much pain all over his body for him to do anything. He wanted to quite breathing because it was very difficult to even think about it. Quatre simply retired to the fetal position and took the pain. The paradox of the situation being that he was completely numb.

He hadn't eaten anything, and he hadn't slept. He just stared expressionlessly at the ground as if he did advert his eyes he would smote by a divine being. Members of his group even stopped visiting him due to his lack of response. As they walked passed, they would pat him gently and sympathize as best they could with the mourning boy.

None of that mattered to the brunette who had decided to visit Quatre today.

The young man either didn't notice or ignored the fact that Quatre was being unfriendly, hostile almost. He reached behind his head and released his messy hair from its braid. He pulled his fingers through the luscious brown locks, attempting to tame the disaster they became after wearing a helmet.

"As much I love to fly my Lockheed P-38 Lightning, which I nicknamed Deathscythe, I hate the helmet hair I get afterwards." The youth chuckled warmly, thinking he was quite the jokester. "But as much as I hate the helmet hair, I don't have the will to cut it off."

There was a silence.

"I'd be nice if they could invent fighter planes that didn't require helmets."

Quatre didn't move or mutter a reply.

"It's Quatre right?" he mumbled, the hair tie placed in his mouth while his hands expertly redid the braid.

Quatre didn't respond once again. He didn't even stir from lying on his side, his back towards the other soldier. The blanket still draped loosely over the curled form of the blonde. The pilot pulled it off the prone figure to reveal him still fully dressed in uniform, the wound on his arm unattended, and the blood of his friend smeared across the front.

"Quat, if you don't move, your body is going to turn into squishy jelly. Which, might I add, is quite disgusting."

The young soldier reached over and pushed Quatre's shoulder playfully. There was no reaction from Quatre, so the other pushed him again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Each time there was a little less playfulness to it and a little more roughness. Quatre let the brunette do so without any resistance. He was too tired to fight back.

Rashid, however, used to tell him to take value in his life. Rashid was the one who defended the young blonde whenever there was trouble. But Rashid wasn't around anymore. The team of Quatre and Rashid had become just Quatre.

"Quat, listen. I know you lost your friend, but moping like this isn't doing you or the others any good."

Finally, the other boy shoved Quatre so roughly that Quatre flew out of bed and landed sprawled awkwardly on the cold ground. Quatre made no effort to move, or even shift to a more comfortable postion.

"Well, Quat," the other boy grumbled. He jumped to his feet and peered over the cot at the pathetic blonde. "You are pitiful." He toyed with his braid as he spoke. "You would think, and you could hope. But you never know until it actually happens."

There was no response.

"I may not have known this person, but it seems to me that he would be one to scold you for being such a wimp."

There was no response.

"Seriously, Quat, think about it. Do you think that he would want you wasting your life sulking around?"

There was no response.

The American pilot walked over to the other side of the cot and stared down and Quatre. He gently nudged him with the toe of his black boot.

There was no response.

He pushed Quatre onto his back and looked down into the bloodshot eyes with dark circles. A few silent tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"Jeez, you make me seem like the bad guy," the American sighed. He nervously scratched his head and tugged on his braid. Then, he sat down on the cot and patted on a spot next to him for Quatre to sit.

Quatre didn't move and simply stared blankly back at the young man. He was still overcome with a painful numbness.

"Alright… Fine then, if you want to do it this way instead." The visitor stood up. He reached down and pulled Quatre to his feet. Quatre having no intention of going anywhere slumped heavily against the other boy. The other boy readjusted Quatre for the more efficient walking position.

"Buddy, this makeshift infirmary is a nasty place. And it's for actually sick people. C'mon. Let's get some fresh air." He smiled and the happiness was evident in the striking cobalt blue eyes.

"It's sort of late to ask, but do you mind if I call you Quat?"

Quatre was looking down at his feet, not paying attention to the words the other boy was speaking to him.

"Since there is no objection, I'll take that as a yes."

Half carrying the blonde and half dragging him, the brunette soldier took Quatre into the afternoon sunlight. It was warm for a winter day, but warm none the less. There was a small draft of cold wind, but the breeze was more soothing than uncomfortable.

They walked along until the outskirts of town, where all the airplanes were landed. It hadn't quite begun to snow, but there was some flakes sprinkled about the landscape. They crunched softly beneath their leather boots as the two walked across the field.

They made their way through the carefully planned lattice network to a well cared for plane. There was just a little too much black paint for Quatre's liking. But it seemed to match the rambunctious pilot's nature.

The brunette set Quatre down in the shade of Deathscythe's wings and took a seat next to him. The blue sky above, comparative to the gray of two days ago, added to picturesque feel of the day.

"So, who was this friend of yours?" the boy suddenly asked.

For a minute or two, the pilot thought Quatre was going to remain as silent as ever. He almost began to regret making the effort to befriend the emotionally tormented blonde, and to drag him all the way out to the temporary Allies air field, to receive the silent treatment.

"Rashid," Quatre finally said after five long minutes. The nostalgic tone in which Quatre said the man's name made the other whistle.

"Rashid, eh?" the brunette pondered. "He must have been quite the guy 'cause all you Poles worship him. He's a god amongst men I suppose."

"What do you mean, 'quite the guy'? Rashid is so much more than just that."

"Oh really?" the other enticed. "Tell me about him."

"He is you. He is me. He is my mother and he is my father. He is my sister and my brother." Quatre's speech had sped up a little and was becoming more human.

The other boy raised an eyebrow. Quatre had taken the bait.

"My father used to be an agent for international finances. And my mother was always so busy taking care of the household that I never saw much of them. I was the only boy of four children. Rashid was the brother that I always wanted and never biologically had."

Quatre pulled his goggles over his eyes. "I loved the Arthurian legends. I loved everything about the Knights of the Round Table, even with the scandal between Lancelot and Guinevere. We'd pretend to be members and I'd have so much fun."

Quatre jumped to his feet and danced around as if he were wielding Excalibur.

Fire lashed out at him as he faced down the terror of the village in a remote corner of his sacred kingdom. Quatre adeptly dodged the assault and cut across the creature's chest. It screamed a horrendous sound that shook both the sky and the earth. It swiped its paw at Quatre and sent him flying into a boulder. Not accepting defeat, Quatre picked himself up and charged. He screamed ferociously as he swung is broadsword high above his head and plunged it deep into the heart of the black dragon. With a renewed energy, he laughed and panted heavily.

"Rashid liked Merlin best, the wise father of all. In a sense, that role was perfect since their characters are so similar. But he'd play a more eccentric version of Merlin; going about casting spells upon anything he had an excuse to cast a spell upon."

Quatre then pretended to be the young Arthur, staring in awe at the glorious sword protruding from a stone. "Only a true king of men may draw Excalibur from this stone," Quatre said in an imitated, deep voice. He reached down and firmly grasped the imaginary hilt of the sword with both hands. With the ease of running water, Quatre pulled Excalibur free.

"I am King Arthur, the high king of Camelot!" He shouted to the sky above.

The American pilot fell on his back laughing at the antics of his new friend. He clutched at his stomach for he was starting to cramp due to insane laughter. At his age, he would never admit to anyone his childhood fantasies. Except, just maybe, he would tell them someday to Quatre.

"I shall never die, for I will live in the dreams of all men," Quatre continued. "And I will arise once more when my country needs me most."

Quatre sat down after a few more mock battles with mythical creatures and atrocious bandits. It was surprising to see someone who had previously so lethargic be so energetic. Although the pain from Rashid's death still lingered in the face of the infantry man, there was a sort of peace brought about it.

"Rashid is a wonderful man. He isn't just my friend; he's an extension of my soul as I am his."

Quatre's acquaintance nodded slowly. They understood each other despite the vast differences between them. The two sat in a peaceful silence, enjoying whatever the revere they could while the ongoing war around them was relatively quiet.

"Do you realize that Rashid is, to put it bluntly, dead? And you're still talking about him as if he was alive?" he asked.

Quatre shook his head. "Rashid is not dead. He's alive." He pointed at his heart.

"Judging from the way you were previously this morning, I would have come to the conclusion that Rashid was entirely dead."

"I guess I just needed someone else to beat me up to realize that."

"You're welcome, Quat."

"Thanks…" Quatre struggled to recall the other boy's name. Did the other boy give his name?

"Duo," Duo supplied.

"Thank you, Duo."

"That's what I'm here for."

"Duo?"

"Yeah?"

"How much time do we have left until supper?"

Duo checked a glance at his watch. "About four hours. Why?"

"I'm going to sleep."

---

**To be continued…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Avery's Note:** Thank you to your support! It really means a lot to me, believe it or not. Now for the next chapter, which I hope is keeping up to par. I'd like to mention that I'm not a fan of Relena Peacecraft, and this chapter belittles her just a tad. Sorry, Relena fans! Oh, and albeit I tried my best, I think Heero is OOC. Sorry about that, too.

**Summary: **"This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will simply try to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war." Erich Maria Remarque _All Quiet on the Western Front_

**The story thus so far: **Two days after the death of Rashid, Duo, a young American pilot comes to befriend the depressed Quatre. Between them, a unique bond of comradeship is formed that will outlast the war and possibly eternity itself.

**A Passing Eternity**

---

Chapter 3:

With magnificent reflexes uncommon to a normal individual, at exactly 4:30, a pale hand extended out and clicked the alarm clock off before a single ring could reverberate off the metal countertops of the laboratory. The small clock, which should have been located atop a bedside desk, was actually buried beneath several layers of thin sketch paper. One glance at all the mathematical computations that were scribbled around precisely scaled geometric figures was enough to discourage several would-be engineers.

The young engineer, the producer of such magnificent work, frowned and crossed his arms across his chest as he sat up straight on his stool. He ran one of his hands through his dark brown hair and rolled his shoulders a few times absent mindedly. He blinked his dark sapphire eyes several times to clear his focus and rubbed them gently. He had pulled another all-nighter without intending to.

Under normal circumstances, going several long periods without sleep was not that much of a problem. However, the day had unfavorable plans in store for him. Being tired meant he wouldn't be able to function at the desired optimal level. He needed every ounce of strength he could muster to face up to the day's challenge.

There were several things the sapphire eyed, dark haired brunette did not care for. Most of them were uncorrelated items, ranging from things such as summer camps, coastal states, coffee beans, dance floors, and trampolines. Above all, he also didn't believe in having social contact unless it was absolutely necessary.

This was because the young man never was much of a social persona. He wasn't antisocial; it was simply the propensity to be solitary. He preferred to stand in the background, completely inconspicuous, gathering information without telling information. And for the most part, that particular philosophy served him and others well.

It also did not mean he disapproved of everyone. He was somewhat particularly fond of the company of Her Majesty, the Queen of England. But of everyone, there were three types of people that Heero Yuy absolutely detested.

1. Unintelligent politicians

2. Snotty French citizens

3. Ostentatious females

Of all the unintelligent politicians, snotty French citizens, and ostentatious females, there was one person whom he refused to meet with at all costs. Her golden hair fell straight down her shoulders; her blue eyes were always alight with a faraway hope; her mannerisms perfect and pristine of a diplomat. And her constant, overt ramblings about finding true peace and compassion was unbelievably annoying to him.

Relena Peacecraft.

Heero hated that name and what it represented. Unlike most individuals he came across during his international engineering design exhibitions, Relena Peacecraft was the epitome of all three categories of people Heero did not appreciate. And the fact that he had to attend a private luncheon with her later that afternoon at 11:30, as mandated by the Queen herself, did not help lighten his mood.

Pulling his thoughts away from the horrors of that woman, Heero refocused himself on the projects at hand. He had only a few months before he left Britain as her chief engineer and transferred his base of operations into another Allies country. As a good bye present for his home of five years, Heero wanted to leave Britain with a weapon design that would become a significant player in the war effort, and hopefully lead her into victory.

At 10:00, Heero found a stopping point in his work. He frowned at his progress in the development of the Infantry Tank Mk IV Churchill (A22). Although he had made significant improvements in the designs, he still felt dissatisfied with it. There was still much more work that had to be done before it could achieve the goals that Heero intended for it to accomplish.

He turned around on his seat and surveyed his other piece of work. Several hundreds of sheets of paper littered the table top, a massive pile of chaos. The drawings were all his reject ideas, which he carefully reviewed and slowly assembled into a new land system. It was going to be a wonderful welcoming gift to his new home.

Disgusted by the disarray, Heero took the various sheets and pinned them on his mapping board. Piece by piece, one could physically see what was the beginnings of a tank that would become the T-34 and the predecessor for its series of land systems. The powerful main gun that was to be installed had excellent range, which meant that the system would dominate engagements against German tanks.

Once done, and with a sigh, he stood up and stretched out all the muscles of his body. For someone who was as sedentary as him most of the time, he was in fantastic shape. It was due to years of personal discipline, and several more in the army as an infantry man. He had a small frame, with powerful and limber muscles. His pale skin made his dark hair and eyes seem to be even darker.

Heero returned to his residence, a section of the laboratory that had been converted into various parts of a house. Walking into the kitchen, he snatched an apple off the counter and bit into it. He rummaged about the cabinets, seeking something to satisfy his awkward feeling of hunger. Dissatisfied with everything, he finished his apple and ate the assortment of fruit on his counter.

He then showered, performed daily personal hygiene rituals, and dressed. The final product was quite the transformation from a scruffy tank top and spandex-wearing boy to a highly professional man. He wore a simple black suit, a flawlessly white shirt, a silk black tie, and polished black shoes.

Promptly at 11:00, he left his living quarters and drove towards the high end district on the other side of London. It wasn't too long of a drive, but it was long enough to give Heero sufficient time to reflect on his thoughts. He passed a park that was usually, if not always, lacking people. It had not occurred to him until now, that he was going to miss it. It was one of the few public places where he could be at peace and enjoy being outside.

He arrived at the determined location at 11:26 and entered the restaurant just as his wristwatch changed to read 11:30. The head waiter had retired to the kitchens for a brief time, leaving no one to receive Heero. Out of habit, Heero hastily scanned the lunch time gatherers, studying their features.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Yuy," a sweet, feminine voice called out to him from across the room.

"Good afternoon to you as well, Ms. Peacecraft." Heero turned to his right to find an elegantly dressed young woman sitting at a small table set for two. Her flowing blue dress accented her eyes and was snug in all the places to emphasize her shapely body. Her blonde hair was longer and was placed in a most stylish manner atop her head. Heero had not seen her for three months, and from an objective standpoint, Relena had become more beautiful.

She stood up and offered her hand to him in a manner which seemed as if she was the Queen of England herself. Heero, not wishing to be impolite, forced down his disdain for the woman and kissed her gloved hand gently. The customs were not required between them since they met long before the start of the war, but Heero still preferred the performance of formalities over the potential of becoming closer acquaintances. It would bring too much unwanted attention to him.

Relena smiled gently and daintily sat back down with all the grace in the world. She settled herself comfortably into her seat and took a sip of water. Her decorum was so perfect that if she had those skills transferred to that of engineer, she would have outranked Heero by several leagues. After Relena settled down in her seat, Heero walked over to the opposite side of the table and sat down as well. Unlike his counterpart, Heero did not touch anything on the table.

"Mr. Yuy, I am surprised that I have been able to lure you out of your operations."

Heero looked at directly at her with an impassive expression. Relena knew he was not going to speak unless the conversation required it of him to speak. Besides for his weapons, Heero was infamous as well to his taciturn nature. It was said to be a phenomenon if one could withdraw a full paragraph from him.

They sat quietly for several minutes and Relena felt like an entire eternity would pass between them before Heero would mutter a single word. She never enjoyed silence, and the stoic aura of Heero's silence was more uncomfortable than typical.

"Trust me; it was for good reason as well," she added apprehensively.

It was obvious that the young man had already lost total interest in whatever Relena Peacecraft had to articulate. Heero's eyes had begun to check around once more at the other restaurant goers. They had begun to whisper to one another at the sight of France's diplomat and Britain's chief engineer having a lunch date.

For a moment, Heero was concerned with the rumors that would spring up due to the events of the day. There probably wasn't a single individual in the entire European continent that wasn't aware of Relena's attempt to pursue him. If the topic was not about diplomacy, it was about Relena's intimate feelings for him.

He shortly then after discarded those minor worries for it did not matter to him what the public thought. The media would publish tabloids about the two to no avail. People would eventually lose interest. Everything would return to the homeostatic state Heero preferred.

"Knowing that you prefer direct conversation, I will get straight to the point," Relena continued, as if Heero were delighted to have the conversation.

Heero nodded very slightly, a subtle movement that signaled he was listening and paying attention although he was looking out the window and at the slightly cloudy sky. The gorgeous aquamarine shade it held that day made him think that it had decided to absorb the color of a boy's eyes, one who kept staring up into its depths. His mind wandering, Heero was curious as to what shade it would be in Russia.

"I am here to offer you a job as chief engineer of France. There is so much more that we can offer you than our British counterparts."

Heero raised an eyebrow. He wasn't surprised, but rather intrigued by her audacity. It had been made public that he will soon be retired from his position in Britain, and it was also made public that he already chose his new location, although undisclosed. The conversation was going to be a fruitless one for both parties, neither side giving in.

"We have more resources at your disposal. We are in a better financial state concerning the war. And being located closer to the battlefronts, you can have optimal field-testing. The members of the French delegation have all concluded that you would be a wonderful asset to our team. It's not me who wants you. We all do."

"I am sorry. My loyalties to Her Majesty of Britain are prioritized above your French delegation."

"I understand," Relena affirmed. "But you are resigning your post, are you not?"

He gave her the very slight nod once more. "Yes."

"Then why do you hesitate joining my colleagues and me?"

"I do not hesitate. I am decided in my actions already."

"When we heard of the news of your resignation, it was an automatic unanimous decision that it would a top objective to entice you to our delegation. I am here to take you back with me to France, regardless of whatever necessary measures are required. We would prefer you start designing for us, and do not start designing weapons and such for anyone else."

"Do you realize that you were redundant?"

Relena blushed. She was embarrassed at her incompetence in Heero's eyes. For her entire life she had men going through drastic measures in attempts to gain her hand in marriage. Heero Yuy was the only man that she was unable to decipher. She seemed to be worth to Heero less than the minute traces of lint in his pocket.

"That is beside the point. Are you willing to take my offer?" She asked.

Heero chose to ignore her inquiry and returned his thoughts to Russia. He was curious as to the reactions he would have when he saw old, familiar faces. What about the stories they were going to tell him? What about the ones concerning the times when he disappeared so many years ago?

Heero kept his facial expression entirely imperturbable, but he was internally frowning at the personal inquiries. He wasn't as eager to go back now, but he made his decision and was going to follow through with it. The gut-wrenching punches and face-reddening slaps he deserved were long overdue.

"No," Heero finally stated when Relena cleared her throat, demanding his attention in the most polite way she could think of. His voice was impassive, as much as his face was stoic.

"No other country in the world can compare to what France can deliver."

"There are two kinds of people in this world."

"Oh, really?"

"There are those who give everything they have, and there are those who take everything they can get."

Relena knit her brow at the truth of his scornful statement. She knew that he was referring to her as a spoiled child who had to have everything she wanted or would die trying to get what she wanted. Relena fidgeted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She was not going let Heero Yuy slip through her fingers once again, even if it did cost her some dignity.

"Where do you plan on moving your base of operations then, Heero?"

"Home."

"Home?"

Heero didn't respond to the question presented to him. There was a reason behind why he chose not to disclose the location in the initial place.

" Where would that be?" Relena asked.

Heero didn't reply to her question for he felt it was obvious enough to everyone where his home was. It wasn't his state-of-the-art laboratory that the British government supplied him with, and that he spent the last five years living in. It was rather the place he was born and raised. It was the place he cherished. It was the place where he socialized with individuals who were not related to his work.

Since he was eight years of age, Heero had travelled several times around the world and was still yet to return. And he never stopped considering the entirety of the country, all that was good and bad, as his. The people were his to protect, his to love.

After sixteen years of circumventing the globe without ever setting foot on his beloved nation, Heero Yuy would finally be returning home. He finally gained the courage to go back and face up to the people he left behind.

---

**To be continued…**


End file.
